Virginia Woolf Quotes

If one could be friendly with women, what a pleasure - the relationship so secret and private compared with relations with men. Why not write about it truthfully?
If we help an educated man's daughter to go to Cambridge are we not forcing her to think not about education but about war? - not how she can learn, but how she can fight in order that she might win the same advantages as her brothers?
If you do not tell the truth about yourself you cannot tell it about other people.
If you insist upon fighting to protect me, or 'our' country, let it be understood soberly and rationally between us that you are fighting to gratify a sex instinct which I cannot share; to procure benefits where I have not shared and probably will not share.
Indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.
It is curious how instinctively one protects the image of oneself from idolatry or any other handling that could make it ridiculous, or too unlike the original to be believed any longer.
It is far harder to kill a phantom than a reality.
It is far more difficult to murder a phantom than a reality.
It is fatal to be a man or woman pure and simple: one must be a woman manly, or a man womanly.
It is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top.
It is the nature of the artist to mind excessively what is said about him. Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others.
It seems as if an age of genius must be succeeded by an age of endeavour; riot and extravagance by cleanliness and hard work.
It's not catastrophes, murders, deaths, diseases, that age and kill us; it's the way people look and laugh, and run up the steps of omnibuses.
Language is wine upon the lips.
Let a man get up and say, Behold, this is the truth, and instantly I perceive a sandy cat filching a piece of fish in the background. Look, you have forgotten the cat, I say.
Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end.
Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men who have minded beyond reason the opinions of others.
Masterpieces are not single and solitary births; they are the outcome of many years of thinking in common, of thinking by the body of the people, so that the experience of the mass is behind the single voice.
Mental fight means thinking against the current, not with it. It is our business to puncture gas bags and discover the seeds of truth.
My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery - always buzzing, humming, soaring roaring diving, and then buried in mud. And why? What's this passion for?
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Virginia Woolf
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25 January, 1882
DeathDate
28 March, 1941
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